Glass Castles
by Minikimii
Summary: In our castle, there would be no secrets. AkuRoku, AkuLarx
1. Eat You Up

Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts belongs to the gods of the gay boy factory known as Square Enix.  
Thanks to Aindel S. Druida for being an excellent Beta, and much love to my lamerhalf, Nitlon, for putting up with me continuously dangling random sentences in front of her til she went crazy.

**Happy AkuRoku Day~!**

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**Glass Castles**  
Eat You Up

Around you, Night envelops passers-by, holding them close to her sinful embrace as she leads them down the dirty pavement and closer to the throbbing lights and sounds of hip-hop and techno beating in deep vibrations into the street. A slight smell of alcohol whiffs by your nostrils as you watch a man get shoved out of the club, causing your nose to crinkle slightly in disgust. Any moment now, the putrid smell of vomit could defy gravity and force its way out of the drunkard's body.

"Axel, my man!"

You turn around, the swing of your porcupine spikes bobbing after you in a disconcerting blaze of red. Riku is behind you already, his hand falling onto your shoulder as he pulls you into a backward hug. A smile quirks at the corner of your lips and the silveret lets go, dusting himself off.

"I'm surprised you found your own way here. Sure you haven't been here before?" he teases, tugging at one of your red spikes carefully. You swat his hand away, and roll your eyes.

"_Ambrosia_ is a strip club," you sigh, indifferent as ever. "Of course I haven't."

Riku smirks and slings his arm around your shoulder. "Well, it's your bachelor party, so you better enjoy yourself." The term 'bachelor party' is so far from the truth, you want to stop time now and just go home. Technically, you haven't announced the engagement yet, so this is more like a precursor to an actual bachelor party. Even then, the entire aspect of showing up at a place like this is simply the most unsavory thing you've been exposed to since the induction of Flynn Electronics. The sexual silveret hanging off your body is the only thing that could ever tie to you this place, and the thought of stepping in to solidify another connection sends a shiver through your body.

Excitement?

Probably not.

"Dude," Riku groans, pulling you to the line, "just enjoy your last taste of freedom and get in here before the paparazzi sees you."

With a resigned sigh, you let him drag you in, and hope to the gods above that you don't lose a piece of your soul in this place.

- -

Inside, the darkness hugs you tight, rubbing itself all over your skin until you feel as if a pleasurable filth is crawling into you. Riku emptied a couple drinks into you over the past few hours, completely ignoring your request for food as he flirted shamelessly with the bartender, a spiky-haired brunet who smiles back politely and continues the conversation with your best friend. Feeling thoroughly ignored, you turn your attention to the stage where both men and women alternately prance around to be ogled by the filthy elite. A Riku-ward cursory glance tells you he's too engrossed in watching the brunet's subtle, sexually inviting movements to pay attention too much to what you're doing.

Your eyes trail from your best friend to the bartender and your gazes suddenly lock. The younger male nods toward your direction and Riku turns, his face lighting up in recollection of how you sat through the last half hour virtually alone.

"You're here for a bachelor party, so why don't you take care of your bachelor?" the bartender suggests.

Your best friend grins back at him with a quick I'll-see-you-after-your-shift smirk, and struts toward you, wicked hips swinging, and yanks you by the wrist to one of the tables both against the wall and closer to the stage. Not wanting to cause a scene, you acquiesce, vowing silently to leave as soon as the silveret lets go of your wrist.

After being shoved awkwardly into a seat, you avert your gaze from the stage he's forced you to face and stare at your hands. The music pounds into your skin, the words _dirty desire… dirty desire, dirty desire…_ repeating in a hypnotic female voice. An annoyed groan sounds from in front of you and Riku jerks your face upward by the chin, forcing your eyes to the stage. A dancer swings around one of three poles, hooking her legs suggestively around the cool metal as she slides the front of her scantily clad body against the surrounding air.

You can't help but think of what your fiancé would say if she knew where Riku took you today; she doesn't deserve a fiancé who sneaks out to bisexual strip clubs in the middle of the night.

"Larxene isn't going to find out," Riku reassures you. You simply squeeze your eyes shut as a sign of defiance. "Stop acting like a teen," he chastises. "This is a perfectly natural setting, so just go with the flow."

"Nnh." The noise sounds from the back of your throat. You can practically feel Riku frown at the sound of your disappointment as he removes his fingers from your chin.

With an annoyed groan, you lay against the table and bury your head in your arms. Songs switch two or three more times around you and the lights on the stage pulsate in mind dulling flashes that squeeze through your eyelids and harass your retinas. The rush of moving bodies passes by you, and a nagging fear keeps screaming that one of them might be telling the paparazzi that you're here.

No one has hair like this, after all.

Soon, your neck begins to stiffen like someone's screwed the screws a bit too tightly, and you look up to fix the crick, only to find that Riku is gone and a collared and seemingly naked blond male has replaced him.

"I was wondering when you were going to look up," he initiates impishly, eyes guarded, but body language deceptive enough to become alluring. The smile on his lips doesn't quite wrinkle the area around his eyes like they should, and the predatory grin on his face worries you.

"Who are you?" you manage to ask, eyebrows flinching up in alarm when he stands up. Logically, you know he isn't naked, but this is your first time in a strip club and the nerves haven't quite dissipated. Instead of an awkward patch of bare skin meeting your eyes, frighteningly short leather hot pants laced together on the sides (tight enough to stay on, but skimpy enough to show off the sides of the blonde's hips) invade your range of vision. He struts toward you, hips swaying confidently – even more so than Riku's – and leans in to molest your personal space. Trapped between the table, wall, chair, and the blond, you shut your eyes and pretend the forward stranger isn't actually there.

Which only works for a grand total of two seconds.

Hot weight settles into your lap and you open your eyes to the sight of the blond's legs spread, his body plopped straight into your lap. His black knee-high boots shine in the hypnotic, pounding lights as a devilish grin crosses his chiseled features and he swings up his left leg, letting it rest on the back of your chair, all without batting an eyelash. The blond reaches his right hand out and captures the back of your neck, forcing your eyes onto his face, and brings his own lips dangerously close to yours.

"I'm Roxy," he breathes almost into your mouth, tasting slightly of alcohol, "and I'm paid for."

You sneak a glance toward Riku who is now sitting at the bar, smirking and exchanging conspiratorial smiles with the bartender.

"Roxy…" you repeat, eyebrows wrinkling in concentration as you look down and try your best to fight the blush creeping into your face. "I'm not interested in doing anything illegal."

"No, no!" he chuckles and skims a finger under your chin to tilt your head back toward his face. "I'm the best dancer at this club," he boasts, bringing his face to the side of your head to warm your ear as he wraps his other arm around the back of your neck, producing an impossible situation to escape from. "Perhaps that's how you've heard my name before?"

"Sorry, but I'm straight and engaged," you deliver smoothly, feeling strangely un-awkward about the fact that this is the first time a male has sat on your lap in such a way.

Roxy smirks and trails his finger down the open collar of your shirt like a lick of flame. "So this is your bachelor party, I assume?"

"Yeah," you confirm, chest fluttering nervously as you watch his fingers wrap around the tie that had been draped loosely around your neck. His elegant fingers play across the silk, sliding down its length until they reach the end and touch to his lips.

"Does your woman know you're here?" he asks, lips moving against the slender black silk, smirking at the way your face flushes. "No?"

"No…" you murmur, trying to look away.

But you can't, because those eyes are burning blue embers that haze your mind over. He reads the reaction on your face and smirks seductively, licking his lower lip, eyes glazing over slightly when his eyes land on your own lips and the subsequent exposed neck below.

"Then what's the problem?" He murmurs the question breathily and you can almost imagine his tongue wrapping around the syllables that pass through his lips to yours. Your chest quivers like his words are the most delicious thing you've ever tasted.

"I'm straight," you almost stutter, glancing around frantically for anyone who can assist your situation. The rest of the club-goers are entranced by a female dancer on stage in a short skirt and no top, which forces you to come to terms with the fact that any panicking is in vain.

The dancer in your lap smiles and grinds against you subtly. "Really?"

"Yes, really."

He places a fingertip against your lips, smiling. "Wanna test that theory for free?"

"It wasn't a theory," you retort, pushing his hand away from your face. "I'm straight."

The blond throws back his head and laughs. "Baby, if you were straight, you would've thrown me off your lap a long time ago!"

"Maybe I'm just polite," you challenge.

"Maybe you are," he agrees.

"Thank you." A minor dizziness has sprouted in your temple and you try to look away, but your eyes keep trailing back to the dancer's neck where a black collar with a blank dog tag is hanging, part of the standard issue men's uniform at _Ambrosia_.

A slightly calloused fingertip touches to your chin, grazing your skin lightly as it tilts your face upward again. "If you're really as polite as you say, then you wouldn't turn down this free dance." Roxy smiles deviously.

You roll your eyes and glance back toward Riku who has stopped watching and turned back to talk to the bartender.

"Oh, c'mon, big boy, just one…" he leans in, face so close to yours you can almost taste the sin he promises to provide you, "… small…" his violently glassy blue eyes darken seductively, "… lapdance."

Intense heat burns in his gaze, a searing take-me-now kind of seduction radiates through the pores of his glistening skin and seeps into your air, darkening everything over with a kind of thrill no one's ever given you before.

Taking one last look in Riku's direction, you see the bartender nod toward your general vicinity. Your best friend turns around and gives you what he must think is a consoling grin.

"Fine."

The moment the words leave your lips, he lifts himself gracefully off your lap and begins circling your chair, hips swaying to the heavy beats of the music.

The pumping background bass switches to a heavy, dull pounding you feel in your chest, and reminds you of what sex would sound like if it were music: flaming, dirty, and lusting.

_"When I first saw you I knew nothing's like it used to be/Boy you have got to be the finest thing I've ever seen…"_

Lyrics sound ironically in your ears as your eyes stay glued to his body, moving lithely to the beat around you, expression teasing and tempting with a half-lidded gaze.

_"The way I feel inside is just so hard to understand."_

He moves around in front of you and slowly lowers himself, hips swaying, into your body. Your bottle-green eyes trail downward and are rewarded with the sight of the dancer's hips rolling slowly back and forth in fluid, seductive movements just barely above your lap.

"You feed my appetite in ways I can't explain."

He leans in close, and licks his lips, whispering the words into the shell of your ear as he does so.

"I'll eat you up (so yum, yum)…"

His hips sway to the beat of the music, hovering just above you lap in tantalizingly slow yet heated movements. You dare to look at his face to see his eyes boring holes into your body, piercing you with pinpricks of heat that blossom on your skin.

"_Can't get enough… I think I'm in love._"

His eyes slide shut momentarily, betraying just how much he's enjoying this dance. The rising and falling of his bare chest and every hip swing is like another simmering aura of sexual energy flaring up and licking your body, coating your senses in nothing but _want_.

He reminds you of a more sexual male version of Larxene.

_"If you move any closer boy there is no guarantee/What I will do to you I fear it and it's scaring me…"_

He smiles at your expression, even though you can't tell what it is.

More sexual by _so_ far.

_"Like I've become some kind of demon in the night…"_

Roxy brings his face close to yours, smiling and taking your fisted hands in his, leading them open-palmed down the contours of his body. Plains of tight, flat skin merging into subtle curves, and the muscles of his torso cling tightly to his architecture, making you feel as if you're touching humanity in physical perfection.

_"You look so tasty I could eat you up alive."_

He leans closer to your shoulder, and breathes a hot, sauna-like, open-mouthed heat all over your neck. The warmth pools and brings a flaring heat to the surface of your body, as your hands trail further down his torso and rest on his hips. He winds your fingers into the lacings of his shorts, and lets go, draping his arms around your shoulder as he shimmies his body closer and closer to yours, bringing your face level with his chest.

_"Can't stop thinking 'bout the things I wanna do to you."_

He rolls his hips back and forth and your perspiring hands handle him with enraptured concentration. A heat rises in your chest and struggles to burst forth into physical action, but you push it back. You've never been in this situation before… Are you allowed to simply look? Is touching against the unspoken rules of being a receiver?

"If you move any closer you'd be asking for it too."

The worries leave your mind as Roxy rubs his body against and all over the air around you. The smooth, flat plane of his chest is so enticing, so gorgeously tanned and deliciously unmarred, you want to—

_"I want your love/I need your touch…"_

You want to touch him.

_"So much I think I'm in love."_

He won't stop moving those hips, and you want to kiss him.

_"I'll eat you up."_

A sweat sheen glistens over his torso and you want to lick him.

_"So yum, yum…"_

That perfect, unblemished skin is so tempting you want to mark him.

_"Can't get enough…"_

His face is so close to yours, you can't breathe.

_"I wanna take you to my room…"_

His eyes are burning with desire, and you want to play with the fire.

_"I'll eat you up."_

You…

_"Can't get enough."_

You…

_"I think I'm in love."_

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New story FTW?  
Roxas was dancing to "Eat You Up" by BoA. Parts of the lyrics were omitted for fluidity purposes.

(I'm going to get shot for posting a new story, aren't I?)

_Bisous, Minikimii_


	2. This is How it Feels

Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts belongs to the yaoi factory known as Square Enix.

Je te présente... Roxas! Yeah.

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**Glass Castles**  
This is How it Feels

She's having _another_ party today. God, this is such a waste of money, and she had a ball last month already! Why can't she be satisfied with that?

I don't want to go. Why did she have to make it be a masquerade ball?! That's the exact thing I've always told her that I wanted to have in my honor one day, but instead she goes off and fucking _takes_ it from me!

Untucking my shirt from the hem of my pants, I step in front of the mirror. Fuck them if they want me to be perfect! I unbutton the Tuxedo jacket and the first three buttons of the white undershirt I wear. Maybe if I look shitty enough, no one will notice me and I won't have to stick around for the whole thing.

Or maybe I could fuck up the entire event? It's probably just another disgustingly flamboyant excuse to make more publicity. As if being New York's pretty little princess isn't enough already…

With a grin, I don my classic white mask and step out into my hallway. Time to haul ass and raise hell. Oh, sweet trickster Loki, deity Hermes, devious Tengu, how men love you so.

* * *

"C'mon, Axel," she sighs, tucking a rose into the breast pocket of your suit jacket. "We're announcing the _engagement_ tonight so at least try to look excited."

You sigh and gather her busy hands away from your chest, your long fingers closing around her fragile wrists easily. Bringing her elegantly gloved fingertips to your lips, you smile and whisper, "But I _am _excited. I'm just saving my party energy for later."

She smiles wordlessly, catching your fingers in her hand as you turn away. This time, you unconsciously fight the urge to release yourself from her grip; lately, nothing's been the same. You can't believe she bought your lie. The guilt nibbles at the blurring lines of what defines _you_, blurring and erasing the tips of what you thought had been set in stone. It's frightening.

I'll eat you up, your love

That damned song plays on the radio more and more frequently as of late, and every time the heavy bass intro beat rubs up against your eardrum, you can almost see the way Roxy swung his leg off your shoulder and began swaying, feel the darkness of the club's atmosphere pressing into your skin, _taste_ Roxy's breath—sweet with a hint of a fruity margarita—in your mouth . It fills you with a thrilling sense of excitement and shame, and you have to still your breathing every time the flashbacks return, just so you can make it through the day, so the heavy, rock-like weight doesn't crush your chest.

This must be how sinners feel.

"Axel?"

"Hm?" She's gazing up at you, clear blue eyes narrowed playfully. You love it when she gets that grin on her face, but all you can imagine now is the way Roxy grinned at you when…

She bumps your arm with her body, interrupting your thoughts. "I'm ready. How do I look?" She twirls in an elegant swirl of bright maroon (magenta?) contrasted against black and white. Part of you wants to say her elbow length gloves are too flashy and only appropriate for a wedding, but you hold the words back and step forward with a lying sinner's kiss to the forehead. Besides, she looks beautiful.

"You look perfect, Larx." At least now you're telling the truth.

She replies at first with a kiss. "I'd hope so," she laughs, leading you out of the dressing room and into her bedchamber. "I spent almost twice as much as I usually do on this dress." Translation: about five times as much as you did on your last two tuxedos combined.

Sometimes you could swear this isn't the right match, but the media picked you to be the bachelor of the year last winter and practically thrust you into a relationship with Larxene ("the sexiest, most sophisticated daughter upper-class New York has ever seen"), after reader polls showed the public thought the two of you would be the best and most beautiful power couple to ever grace the streets of New York. Social and fairytale cliché demanded you start dating, even if it meant a heavily superficial relationship.

- -

The ballroom floor of the mansion is filled with masked guests, and all you can think of is the impending announcement. Larxene invited reporters from _every_ (no, seriously) major gossip magazine to attend and cover the event. Her friends make up the bulk of the crowd, which nearly defeats the point of a masquerade theme—they recognize one another before the air of mystique can settle.

A business acquaintance calls your name, but you don't turn to respond. It's a shame that your hair can still give you away when it's tied down into a neat ponytail at the base of your neck. Feigning deafness, you scan the room. There are three sets of staircases, all three of which meet at the raised stage space where the symphonic orchestra brings the notes on the staff to life.

The stage connects to the second floor with a broken circle balcony that gives out just above the front door, overlooking the ground-level dance floor. White, gold, and silver sparkling crystalline ornaments dangle stylishly from every aesthetically reasonable above-ground hanging place. At the center of the dome ceiling is a weighty crystal chandelier. You don't dare step under it out of paranoia.

(Even though you'll probably end up under it sometime during the night. Larxene will probably want to dance in the center of the ballroom floor or something.)

Bored, you default to watching the waiters mingle with the guests. You nearly jump out of your skin when the waiter you're watching passes by a masked blond with spiked hair staring directly at you . He leans casually against one of the elegant arches, both blending in and standing out with his classic slim-cut black tuxedo, sans tie and first three buttons of the undershirt undone—the perfect disguise if not for his lithe grace.

Sensations of a chilling liquid heat slide across your lower back and begin crawling up in tendrils that wrap along your ribcage like an incubus lover caressing his sinful prey . A mask covers only the right side of his face leaving one sapphire eye and grinning cupid-bow lips exposed and taunting. Then, almost like he'd finally affirmed his suspicions, the blond—no, definitely Roxy—winks and runs his tongue suggestively across his teeth.

Did someone just turn up the heat?

Embarrassed, you turn back to Larxene only to find that she's wandered off with the other members of the ruling elite. Suddenly the entire masquerade atmosphere stifles you. Faces everywhere become unrecognizable. A bird-masked man chats with a woman with a crescent moon face whose midnight dress is adorned with miniscule metal stars that bunch up the dark cloth wherever they're sewn.

In a desperate attempt to get your bearings in the swimming room, you turn back to where you saw Roxy leaning against a column, but subtle, irrational panic rises in your chest when you realize he's not there. Feigning calm, you cross the room to where he had been standing.

"Excuse me," you tap a waiter on the shoulder, "have you seen the young man standing here? The one with the half-mask and the blond hair?"

The waiter gives you a strange look and points behind you. Grinning cockily is the blond devil, hands folded behind his back, bedroom eyes raking over you. He winks at you once and flees across the room. Intrigued, you follow him until he stops suddenly at a secluded spot on the other side of the almost ninety-degree corner that breaks off into one of the hallways the maids and waiters are supposed to use.

"Fancy seeing you here, good lookin'," he greets you, going in for a kiss. You take a sudden step back, panic fully visible. "Relax," he says with a laugh. "Guess you're not French enough to go for the kiss on each cheek, huh? That's alright too." He leans in close, two steps back and you hit the wall. Trapped, he tugs on your tie, pulling your face down to his level, and leans in close enough to feel his breath against your lips. One of his arms goes up against the wall as if trying to prevent your escape. "Not that I'm complaining. I can go for one right here t—"

"_Roxas!_"

You both turn around to see a fuming Larxene glaring angrily in your direction. No one turns at the sound of the sharp, piercing hiss, and the blonde suddenly has tears in her eyes.

"First you shame the family, then you try to take Axel from me…" she whispers as if it's the most vile and disgraceful secret she'd ever come upon. "I can't believe you!"

The blond rolls his eyes and pushes himself off the wall. Saying nothing, he shoves past Larxene and into one of the hallways guests are discouraged (read: forbidden) from entering. Meanwhile, you can't begin to process what has just happened. All your brain seems to be catching are Larxene's tearing face and Roxy's—no, _Roxas's_—dismissive blow off.

You tear your eyes away from the hallway he disappeared down and go to comfort your fiancé. The moment your fingers brush her arm, she flinches away. You try again, and this time she collapses in your arms, a heap of a mess.

"Larxene," you whisper, so softly and so without motion you doubt anyone could read your lips. "Who was that?"

She sniffles once and buries her face in your shoulder.

"My brother."

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I'm laying in my room wearing nothing but a pair of silk boxers when suddenly, my sister bursts through the door, a flood of light from the hallway crashing in behind her. I try not to flinch when she storms over to my bed and grabs me by the arm and drags me into an upright sitting position. Fuck, the bitch's nails are sharp…

"What the _fuck_ did you think you were doing, huh?" she hisses, spit flying into my eyes. "You have _no right _to go hitting on _my _fiancé, you gay perv! Understand?!" More spit flies into my face and it's times like these that I'm grateful the human design included reflexive blinking.

"Understood, Larx," I grin cheekily. Maybe if I act like enough of an asshole, she'll get annoyed and leave.

She pushes me back onto the bed and turns to head for the door. "You're such an asshole, Roxas."

Hey, would you lookit that. I can read minds!

"Better an asshole than a pussy," I call as she slams the door. Temper, temper…

Honestly though, I didn't know he was Axel. Hey, when a man like me has the need to cause havoc, he goes for the familiar face. I never expected someone at one of _her_ parties could ever be one of my customers, and certain not her fiancé of all people. If I knew who he was, then I wouldn't have gone for him.

'_Roxy, Roxy, Roxy, you liar! You would have anyway. You were going to pick a man to molest and you would've still chosen him anyway. Oh, Roxy, Roxy, Roxy, you liar…"_

Sighing, I flip onto my side and face the door where a sliver of light lines the carpet. Whatever. I don't always need to raise hell.

My room is so small compared to the wing of the house Larxene occupies. Sometimes it's easier to forget about the size of it when it's dark. Sometimes I wonder if I never came out to my parents, would I still be living in the same part of the house as my older sister? But there aren't any reset buttons in the grand scheme are there? Life's just a bitch like that.

The sheets are cold against my bare skin, but I don't move to cover my body. Part of my emotionally masochistic self wants to punish me, wants me to suffer.

Ugh. I hate psychology when it makes me seem like a freak.

Frustrated, I lay flat on my chest and bury my face in my pillow. And, somewhere in the pit of my stomach, for a reason I can't find an explanation to, I hope Axel doesn't hate me too.

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Writing this thing is such a challenge... I'm always afraid I royally fuck things up when I try to make analogies. Thank goodness **Aindel S. Druida** is a goddess among mortals and has graced me with her beta skills. :3

_Bisous, Minikimii_


	3. Pressure

Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts belongs to the yaoi factory known as Square Enix.

So as a little bit of a clear up: Axel's PoV is second person. You, the reader, are experiencing the story _as_ Axel. Roxas, on the other hand, is the first person PoV. He's the one telling you the story, his story, because...

Let's not get into the reasons why I've chosen to set them that way. You guys can guess at the reasons why! (Yes, there's a deliberate reason for every character's PoV, including the ones you haven't met yet.)

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**Pressure**

Memories.

They scatter across your bed in the form of photographs shot by the paparazzi—his stoic face, her frantic tears, your incriminating shock—the scandal of homosexuality and a supposed "war between siblings" for the same man is enough to keep the media satiated for a year and more. Meanwhile, the Board of Advisors for Flynn Electronics is biting you in the ass on an almost daily basis. The new intern everyone has been pointing out to you (because he has hair "as crazy as yours") has started allowing his gazes to liner on your body for longer periods of time.

You're not unaware of your surroundings, oh no. You're Axel Flynn, for Christ sake! You didn't get where you are by acting line a stumbling blind idiot.

The ding of the elevator to your penthouse sounds, so you rise from your mattress and shuffle into the living room to meet Riku.

"Man, you look like shit."

"I know." Captain Obvious, the loveable fuck.

The sylph-like man glides into an elegant position on your black sofa, his relaxed rocker-style clothes falling into perfect folds and creases around his joints. "So you gonna let the public pick you apart?"

"Hell no!" It comes out as a scoff and an eye roll. What the hell kinda question was that? Riku knows you better than that; he's known you since before you first left the orphanage at age sixteen to attend MIT. He knows you're _not_ a quitter.

He also knows you don't handle sexual situations with grace.

The _bastard_.

He must've known who Ro—_he_ was. Riku must've known and planned the entire thing and the bartender must've helped him. All those smiles and whispers and getting you drunk while refusing to feed you food… Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck _fuck it ALL!_

"Didn't think so." Riku continues while smirking like he can read your mind. Pretentious bitch. "What does Larxene think? Bet she's pissed as hell people still caught you three on camera together. I always knew she was—"

"You knew he was Larxene's brother, didn't you?" you suddenly accuse, unable to control your burst anger. The air around your face heats up to match your hair, and your fists tighten around the silk edges of a white throw pillow. "You fucking set me up!"

The silveret halts mid-sentence, his eyes widening. "Woah, man, calm _down_."

"You _knew_," you hiss, your clench harder into the pillow. "You knew who he was, didn't you?"

"No, I didn't I swear." His hands are up by his face, his palms turn outward toward you as if saying 'don't shoot'.

"Then why's you get me drunk and then send him toward me, huh? Did you want to give him a reason to talk to me?"

Riku sighs and his shoulder slump. He readjusts his position so that both his feet are flat on the ground and his elbows rest on his knees. The first three fingers of his right hand migrate to his forehead and temple to massage away an oncoming headache.

"I wanted you to be able to have some reckless fun for once in your life, so I just asked Sora who the best dancer was in the club and he pointed out… well, you know who." He sighs and leans back against the cushions. "Axel, I'm sorry."

You turn away from him, eyes closed and chest heaving, and block out as many senses as you can so the information from the outside world will just _stop_. In the back of your mind, you realize what you're doing is childish, but you don't care: it makes you feel better.

And you could damn well use a drink right now.

"Just get out. Please," you hear yourself say, almost as though you've gone on auto-pilot. "Leave before I do something I might regret."

A salient silence seeps in, pressing at your pores. You hear the sounds of feet crossing hard wood floor, and your body tenses. You didn't actually expect him to listen to you. Riku's never, ever left you before and… and…

"Wait—"

"What?" Bare arms with fine little white hairs wrap around your torso. "You thought I was leaving?"

Your body stiffens as his arms gently encase and squeeze you. Slowly, flickering memories of your days at the orphanage filter in through the corners of your mind and converge in the centerspace, a blend of colors and disposable cameras and precious computer-code printouts from the library nearby... It's all so sepia-vivid.

"Yeah, I did," you admit, smile on your face.

"Idiot."

You can feel his comforting smirk in the air.

* * *

With a new day comes more shit to hate. Bitch woke up this morning and the first thing she did was make sure that my clothes were supposedly all "dirty and needed to be put in the laundry". The maids refuse to help me, and my bank account can hardly stand a trip to a store to find replacements, and neither can my bare chest.

This means I can't go to work today.

Which, really, is ironic considering I'm a fucking sometimes-pole-but-mostly-lap- dancer.

Goddamn.

Sulking into a sitting position on the bed, I reach around the floor for my cellphone and scroll through my list of contacts (an impressive collection of seven people) to find Sora's number. It's about nine in the morning. He should be awake.

Three rings later, his scarily-and-biologically-unexplainably-identical-to-mine voice answers.

"Hey, Rox." Yawn. "What's up?"

"Sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but..."

"It has something to do with your sister, doesn't it?"

Stupid psychic Sora. Fuck.

"Yeah," I grumble. "She took my fucking clothes again so either I drive to work wearing nothing but boxers or I don't come in today."

The faint rustle of bedsheets sounded from the other end of the line, and I bite my lip somewhat nervously. Man, I woke Sora up... That sucks royal ass, right there. God knows the little Skyboy needs all the sleep he can get. I feel bad for him, but I'm sure he already knows that.

Damn psychic.

"Do you need clothes?" Sora yawns out again. "Do you still have your work outfit?"

"I'm gonna need one of everything but underwear."

There's the slight sound of Sora exhaling through his nose in his constant 'oh, you poor baby' manner and a subsequent rustle of clothes and a jingle of car keys.

"Hear the metal, _cherie_?" he teases. "I'll be over in a little."

"You won't be able to get in to the ho—"

"—_mansion_. I don't want to hear you call that behemoth of a thing a 'house'."

I almost want to say 'Please, God, don't remind me!', but I hold back. I've got self restraint, despite what Bitchface thinks.

"Oh, right. Mansion." I pause for a split second. "I'll wait for your car outside."

"In your... underwear." It's a bewilderedly amused statement. Wonderful.

I press my palm to my forehead and sigh loudly, the undercurrents of a smile passing through my voice. "Actually, on second thought, I'll search my room again for pants or something Larx might've forgot. Wish me luck."

A laugh. "Good Luck, Roxas."

"Thanks."

- -

I'm standing outside later with my legs shoved into a pair of jeans I snuck down to the laundry room and stole from the last of my baskets of supposedly dirty clothes. The maids whiz around me as if I'm invisible, so I wander off closer to the main road where one of the gardeners is pruning bushes.

"Hey, Xion."

Th raven-haired girl stands up from her couch near the bottom of the brush and shakes her hair out of her face.

"Mr. Elva, I'll get fired if I'm seen talking to you." She bites her lip nervously, eyes darting around on the look out for passers-by. "I'm sorry."

I nod apologetically and smile. "It's okay. I'll... I'll see you around."

She reciprocates the gesture sullenly and returns to her bush. It's just not fair, really. I'm practically not allowed to have friends outside my work life now because they work for my parents. If that doesn't offer an explanation for my grand total of seven phone contacts, I don't know what will.

Bored, I find myself habitually balancing my way along the edge of the circular curb that surrounds the fountain. Luckily the only shoes I had left were my work boots.

Ew. "Work boots" reminds me of construction.

The distant rumble of a car's wheels crunching along the rose coral driveway brings my balancing act to a close, and I begin to head over to the main gate. Sora's old, beat up car (that I can't for the life of me figure out make and model) waits a few feet beyond the swinging berth of the dual metal gates. After punching in the few numbers, the gate beeps twice and open.

After I slip into the passenger seat of Sora's car, I lean over and peck the brunet on the cheek.

"Don't forget to smile at the camera and wink," Sora chuckles as he wipes at his face. "Hah. You and your gay overkill."

"You've got it."

So like the condescending asshole I pretend am, I do just that. Mom and Dad, I gave you a little wave this time too. Enjoy the show?

Because that's really it all is. A show... A show to piss my parents off, because they're so fucking insane with their rules for what I'm allowed to do and have. Sure, I'm twenty-one now, but I've got my own job and a car (whose keys were stolen from me by maids, even though it was one I bought myself... so maybe not) and I could be self-sufficient.

If it weren't for the fact that no matter where I go, the realtors or landlords always seem to find another great offer from a wealthy buyer at the last minute. I wouldn't dare risk moving in with Sora; I don't want him to lose his place because I wanted to get away from them.

Damn it all if they think I don't know what's going on.

From my peripheral, I see Sora motion toward the backseat and turn to see a folded pile of what looks like a gray and white long-sleeved shirt three sizes too big for the both of us—perfect for the hanging-off-the-shoulders look he seems to adore sporting. Beside it is another pair of work boots and his old dancer's uniform, a long, tight leather pants that tied up the sides as opposed to my risque leather hot pants.

_Ambrosia_ likes their subtle BDSM sexual subcultre.

After climbing into the back seat as Sora pulls out, I quickly pull on his XXL sweater and press the sleeves to my nose. They smell like laundry detergent and cologne.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" the brunet asks from the driver's seat.

"No, and I'm slipping in to obsessive want for a food baby right now."

"That's a wonderful way to put it," Sora chuckles from the driver's seat, the subtle shaking of his body adding to the bouncing movement of his brown spikes. "Let's get your needs satisfied then."

* * *

You woke up to the slightly foreign feeling of having another body in your bedsheets. A cursory, morning-laden glance registeres the silver hair and the rise and fall of Riku's flat chest.

How long had it been since you've had a sleepover? Would this even count as a sleepover?

"G'morning, Axel."

Oh. The body's awake.

"Hey, you," you replied, smiling. Instinctively, you lean forward and brushed a strand of hair away from the silveret's face. Riku smiles and reciprocates the gesture, running his pale, pianist's fingers through the fire.

"You feeling any better now?"

You nod and hug his body closer to yours; this is where comfort is.

None of the money matters here. The fame and media can't get to you when you're with Riku.

Riku is familiar.

Riku is comforting.

Riku is safe.

_'Sometimes, you're the only thing that feels like home.'_

* * *

Not a very eventful chapter, but it sure got things settled in and characters more solidified. :)

_Bisous, Minikimii_


	4. Becoming

General Note: Second person point of view is Axel, first person is Roxas. I'm wrestling with the idea of including more, and originally, the others would have debuted last chapter, but now it seems I might hold off the others until the story can handle them properly.

Enjoy.

* * *

**Becoming**

It's not the same kind of tired you feel after exercising for too long, or the kind of tired that takes over your body after a long day of work behind a desk, stuck in a chair, scribbling things on paper and sliding your arm across the desk with a mouse in your hand. It's not the monotony of the action of work, but rather the mental strain from doing the same thing for so. Fucking. Long.

Your body feels weary.

How long has it been since you've talked to someone other than Riku? Four days? A week? A week and a half?

You turn to the calendar on your office wall and realize with a shock that it's been thirteen days—almost two whole weeks since you've seen any reporters, your Board of Directors, or... or...

_'Even Larxene.'_

You rise from your desk, as if unsure of what to do next, and resolve to shuffle to the door. Instead of opening the door, your hand rests on the round silver knob, and your forehead against the dark mahogany. The dark wood is cool against your forehead, and you wait there for an extended moment, pulling back later only to eye the shiny oil mark from your forehead on the wood.

What a wonder! Corporate moguls have facial oil too. You were a (albeit lightly) pimple-faced teen once too and those pictures have been on the internet before, yet the media still treats you like you aren't human...

_'It's so damn... so damn confusing, the way people act. Life should be clean-cut like real numbers. None of those imaginary and complex things, no... Sometimes it's best to return to your roots,' _you think, the heels of your hands pressed to your sore, green eyes.

_"Say, Axel... are you __**really**__ straight?"_ Your roommate Demyx had asked once upon a time.

_"… What." _Not a question.

_"I mean, at this rate, it's like you're practically dating that Riku guy. I mean, sure you guys have known each other forever, but... I dunno... I guess... it's been killing me, lately."_

_"Wait. Slow down, Rousseau. What are you talking about?"_ You called him by is nickname, established when you found out he was a writer, musician, playwright, and human rights activist within the first few weeks of college.

_"Je t'aime un peu,"_ he had replied. _"Parce que tu es un homme exceptionnel, et pas personne... Je n'ai jamais senti—" _He was Rousseau because of the French. He was always spewing things in French that you didn't understand, having grown up with bilingual parents you still wish you could've met at least once before you...

You shake you head just before the memory of your shameful reaction rattles you too a point where you can't think anymore.

"Simplify, simplify, simplify," was it? That Henry David Thoreau quote from _Walden_ from the same great Once Upon a Time when things were right and in order and you were barely scratching the second surface of Calculus at the age of fourteen...

By the time you get home that night, everything that plagued your mind earlier in the day was dispelled through a series of phone calls and text messaging. You now have a dinner date to a fancy Italian restaurant with Larxene on Thursday and a meeting with Riku for lunch and dinner on Saturday.

'_Heading a company is so much more boring than being in charge of the design groups... Man, I miss those days. Making the games was so much more fun than this. I'd love to take a boot to the head if it would knock me out of the top chair and back down to the grunt work days._

_'But I've still got my friends—'_ A slight mental pause. '… _I've still got a friend; I have Riku. And I'll see him on Saturday. And Larxene tomorrow, so I suppose that's something to look forward to. '_

Maybe.

* * *

I leaned back on Sora's guest bed, shirtless and heaving sighs. I'd run so damn long on the brunet's apartment's activity center's treadmill that my sides ache.

Actually, it's not so much a guest bed as an old, small mattress that sits on the ground adjacent to Sora's own larger (height-wise) mattress. He rolls around a lot in his sleep and he used to sometimes fall off the nicer one and end up with a face full of stained carpet. So pretty much my last week and a half or so of crashing here isn't without dangers of its own.

"Sora, my latissimus dorsi ache."

I'm bored; I complain. Go ahead and judge me.

"Stop complaining and go take a bath, then."

Sora certainly has.

"I don't want to waste your water."

"Then go prune in the pool to get rid of the sweat, and we can take a shower together when I'm done with my midget laps."

I laugh and strip myself of my clothing, walking in to the bathroom assbare and begin choosing between the three swim trunks that are drying on his towel rack. Sora, the cocky bastard, is wearing a Speedo.

"Really. A hot pink one."

Sora chuckles and his eyebrows raise while his eyes flicker down to my crotch. "You're one to talk."

"You're only wearing as practice for Silver."

"Naturally, baby." He winks. "We've got a date Saturday, don't you know?"

"You lucky bitch." Despite the fact that I think _that _man is gorgeous and fuckable, I keep my distance from him because Sora wants him. I keep so far away that I don't even want to know his name.

To know a name is to know the face of the next temptation; to know a name is to know the face of the next practitioner of Greed.

"Roxas. Just grab a pair and go already."

I smile, holding back the urge to take a few steps forward and violate Sora's body (_'hey, you're the one who said to grab a pair and go'_) and snatch the orange and green trunks before I make my way back to his bedroom.

It's always amused me how people go around claiming nothing rhymes with the word "orange". They're all liars, actually. The way I see it, you have to think _French_ if you want to get anywhere with rhyming. Why? The name "Solange" actually rhymes with "orange" when both are pronounced in French.

"You ready, bareback?" Sora calls from the door. He really is going to go out in public in that damn artificial-strawberry-colored banana fucking hammock.

"Ready, crotchmeister," I reply. Might as well humor him for a while at the pool. Hopefully the water doesn't feel too cold against my skin.

- -

An hour later, Sora and I are completely worn out, wet, and forced to share a single towel as some five-year-old boy out with his (likely single) mom and two sisters decided Sora's fluffy blue towel was an a-okay piece of cloth to claim as his own.

By violently puking up purple grape Popsicle all over its plush comfort.

And that's how I find myself currently entering his apartment again, both of us dripping wet and sharing a giant towel with our naked sides pressed together.

Normally, I'm not one to admit this, but... I haven't had sex in about two months. Most of the time, it's not a problem for me to find some hot (clean. Must. Be. STD. Free.) guy willing to go on a few dates and for a romp back stage every few nights, but recently the pool's been getting shallow. If I didn't know any better, I'd say my parents have paid someone to follow all of my dates and bribe them out of meeting me.

I used to tell my other 'friends' this (the ones that weren't the seven on my cell phone), but... they just thought I was paranoid. That I was being dramatic and faking helplessness and acting completely spoiled and pulling a '_Roxas_' because I was 'too much of a fucking lazy-ass rich boy' to get up and do something about it.

They don't know what it's like to have parents with money and power and severe homophobia. It's... it's not pleasant for my libido, to say the least.

Which is why I have Sora.

I don't know who usually initiates it first, but today he sheds his towelskin and goes off to ready the moderately hot shower, returning with only a towel wrapped around his hips—something he does when there's nothing but skin underneath.

"Roxas," he murmurs as he crosses the floor to the center of the room. For just a moment, I can forget the dingy walls around us as he slides an arm around my waist and pulls me close. "You're tense. And biting. And I can't focus right now because of it and stress and work and _him_ and... And I think you need to... _we_ need to—"

" 'Relax'?"

Eyes shut, he draws his chin toward his chest and breathes in shakily. I cup his cheek and smooth my thumb over his eyelid, enjoying the subtle feeling of eyelashes springing back against my finger.

"Yes. Please."

And I oblige.

His cheek is soft against my closed, still lips, and I nuzzle lower past his malnourishment-defined jawline and to his neck, damp from pool chlorine that clears my nostrils, and forces me to take a breath.

"Shower," he whispers to me, still in control of his voice. It doesn't matter to him anymore—I _know—_that I'm controlling his body now, that I can do whatever I want with him as long as it leaves us both filled and sore and breathing like we're alive.

The towel drops to the floor, and I guide his naked body toward the bathroom door, turning his hips over in my hands so he can make his way to the shower without tripping. It's a cold journey, but it doesn't last long.

Because within moments, we're pressed up against each other, soft swapping touches and licks and kisses to body parts without a thought. His hands were once tentative on my body, but now we know each other more than just visually. We know what we need and what we want and we know they aren't the same thing.

The way his hands handle my, the way I am desperate to not leave marks on his body, the way we can't bear to have our lips touch because it would be a violation of what... of what we've decided so long ago.

It's hard to describe what happens. When I reminisce about these encounters, it always feels like we're exchanging physical dialogue, like our bodies know a language in code and are singing to us. We can't tell what they're saying, but we know what we're feeling. We know we both feel just a bit lost, just a bit hopeful.

And it only works because we're each searching for ourselves in another body, and not each other. Emotional attachment isn't physical attachment—the cravings aren't lustful or loving. They exist merely for confirmation.

It works because we want to make sure that we're really there.

That both of us are real.

* * *

It's Saturday, and you've just gotten off your emergency work trip, and as soon as you enter the parking garage (you drive your own car, as a chauffeur always seemed like overkill to you when it came to displays of wealth), Riku is leaning against a solid column, waiting for you. As always, he's dressed in designer everything—a perk from his modeling job that he so fully takes advantage of—and looks as though he's ready for a night out on the town.

"Hey, Ax," he greets, the volume of his voice tuned as light as if you were leaning in close to him to listen. Despite the fact that you're not even ten meters close to him, his voice is clear in your ears.

You don't bother stopping as you pass him, as he falls naturally in step with you as you head toward your car.

"How'd you get in?"

"Security let me." Your eyebrow quirks, and Riku rolls his eyes. "They know who I am by now."

You consider this for a moment, and choose to respond, "Well, I'd certainly hope so."

Seeing as how he _is_, after all, your best and only friend.

- -

"So, Ax," he stares at you expectantly. "How are things with Larxene? Was the dinner date okay?"

You sigh and lean back in your chair, folding your hands behind your head. "It... she's mad that I didn't call her for such a long time."

"Tell her you were busy with work," he suggests.

You scoff in return. "No use; she thinks I've been seeing her brother behind he back." You pause and blink a few times before continuing. "But she only think that because apparently he's been missing from the mansion for a few days now."

"Ah, the life of a runaway," Riku whimsically remarks.

You sigh. "He's like, what, twenty?"

"Twenty-three," Riku corrects, but you ignore him.

"Anyway, point being, he's not a runaway. Too old to be one."

"Mm."

After a few moments of quiet thinking, the two of you return to the conversation regarding Riku's new modeling gig he got for Heartless Nobodies's new Emerald Blues line. For the time being, punk neo-Victorian styled clothes was a better topic than you disaster of an engagement announcement party.

- -

It was only around dinner time "I need to know what you think."

"About."

"Going back to _Ambrosia_"

A shiver of... fear, perhaps, shakes in your core. What triggered him to bring up that damned place? And you two were having such a nice time at lunch. Kind of.

"No."

"Ax, I have to pick up Sora."

Sora, you learned sometime within the last few hours, was the name of the bartender at Ambrosia—apparently, he was the on who asked Riku out on a date rather than the other way around. As thrilled as Riku was about it, you couldn't really put the same kind of enthusiasm in to your response to the news that he deserved.

"I'm sure he has his own car. And seeing as how you left yours at home and took a cab to meet me here, you should take a cab to meet him to." He begins to protest in earnest, but you cut him off. "I am _not_ driving you. No way am I going near that godforsaken place._"_

"Because of Rox—"

"NO!" You almost scream. "_Not_ because of... of _him_."

Riku scoffs. "You're not homophobic—I _know_ that. Your best friend of eighteen years is gay."

"But..." Your voice falters and you cast your gaze toward the ground. "That's because you're... you're _you_, Riku."

"And that changes things because?"

"It... it..." You stop and clench your hands in to fists, and turn completely away from him. "It shouldn't."

It _shouldn't_ change things, but it does, and you know it. You knew it before you even started this conversation and lied about Roxas.

"So will you give me a ride there at least?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks, man."

Riku smiles his grateful smile, the one that professional photographers never get to see; the one the paparazzo only catch glimpses of when they follow you and Riku to the different technology functions he always accompanies you to.

A quivery settles over your body. You might see Roxas.

And when you stop to think about it, the thought is somewhat exciting... but what kind of exciting?

Riku continues talking, and you catch something about an apology for having you do this on such short notice, and about how witty Sora is and... something. You murmur some unintelligible response and lean away from him. You figure that as long as you're giving some kind of feedback, Riku will keep talking and you can disengage enough to try to figure out what to think of the situation.

Because the only thing going through your head has enough force to make your stomach go cold and empty.

_'Hopefully, no one finds out and tells Larxene.'_

_

* * *

_

"Be careful when you fight the monsters, lest you become one." — Friedrich Nietzsche


	5. Dissonance

**A/N: **So I'm basically an infrequent updater and this is the only story I'm updating right now. Oh well. Still working on Call Me, though, so don't panic, readers. I'm still alive.

* * *

**Dissonance**

I'm outside, waiting for Silver to pick up Sora on their post-dinner date when _he _shows up.

I can't tell if the look on his face is from wanting to puke or pounce. On my bones, that is. His eyes flit back and forth so, even under the dirty street lamp, I can tell that the music leaking from _Ambrosia_ and my hand-me-down work uniform are making him uncomfortable.

"So I heard you're moving in with us at the house next month," is, apparently, what my mouth chooses for me as an inappropriate greeting when I see the sister's fiance that I salivate over.

But less surprising, is said fiance's, "what? She didn't even... well, I look forward to that discussion, then."

It's so like the bitch to just pull that "one, two three... voila! It's my world and you better fucking deal with it!" kinda shit over peoples' heads. She's been doing it since she was, what, eight? Fuck.

"Rox, I'm gonna go get a cab with Riku now. Do you think you can get a ride home with Axel?"

Oh. So Silver's proper name is Riku... Boring. I'm still going to call him Silver.

"Yeah. Sorry, Ax, that okay?"

As pale as that Flynn man is, he still manages to blanch and splutter, "Riku, I... I can't... But—what?"

Woah. Shit future friend alert. Maybe I was wrong about this guy. I should probably just leave this shit alone anyway; don't want another case of the Larx on my ass.

He chooses this time to meander off toward another street light, further away from the club. I don't blame him; he doesn't need another scandal story hanging over his head.

It's bad enough that she got the maids to do her dirty work. I'm just glad I don't go around buying designer shit like she does, seeing as she somehow got the ladies to wreck my wardrobe by throwing everything in the wash with the heavy-duty bleach and towels. Probably threatened them all to do it or be fired. Again.

Believe me, she has fired a maid before. And that was for picking up a sock of mine that made its way into the hall.

"It's cool, I can walk home—"

"Rox, that's seven miles. In those boots?"

Frickin'... "Okay, I'll find my own cab then."

"Looking like that?"

Silver apparently shows concern for people. I mean, I guess that would be a meritorious trait if it didn't completely cancel out the fact that he is the reason I need to find my own ride.

"I'll change then."

"Really? Because your clothes were _sto_—"

This is when I pull Sora aside and whisper:

"God, So, just go and call your own damn cab already and I'll figure this shit the fuck out! I'll just grab a show coat from the back room and cover up or some shit before I move."

His damn blue eyes gave me that puppy look.

"You sure?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely, So. You go have fun with your moon god of a man, okay?"

"Thanks, Rox."

And then we return to see the lanky, manly pair of rich boys standing a while fucking a block apart. Axel probably doesn't even realize we were gone.

At least, I thought that until he suddenly started yelling in my general direction.

Can someone say, "What the holy fuck?"

You feel it in your bones as the short pair rounds the corner. It's impossible to deny because the bruning ,magnetic draw low in your chest is lunging toward the blond, and any minute now the beast growling, vibrating through your arms is going to demand that you latch on and never let go.

"I can drive you home," you suddenly blurt out. It takes a hell of a lot of control to maintain your composure when Roxy—no, Roxas—accepts.

"You sure you want to be seen with me when I'm in my work uniform?" the slight blond asks when your best friend and his bartender drive off in Riku's car.

"Don't you have a change of clothes in the club?"

"No."

* * *

You nearly jump back in shock. "You mean you walk out of your apartment looking like this?"

"No," the blond draws out the syllable in annoyance. "Someone fucking stole my clothes. Actually, Sora's clothes. I don't own any of my own anymore."

_I have a change of clothes in the car._

A resigned smirk corsses your lips. It's too dangerous to take him home with you, but even moreso for him to go alone in a cab.

"I've got a shirt and sweats," you manage ot suggest. "In the car, I mean," you add when he eyes you strangely. "They're my workout clothes from earlier today, and they might be a bit big, but you can wear them if you like."

And that smile he gives, why, it lights up the whole street.

Before you know it, the slinky blond is sitting in the passenger seat of your car, stuck in New York City traffic with you inside your crapcar with no stereo. Larxene says you should upgrade, but...

"Why are they going on a date after dinner?" You break the silence.

"Drinks."

"With a bartender?"

" 'Drinks'." He smirks. "At Silver's place."

"O-oh." You pause. "You... You call him 'Silver'?"

"Yeah. Like Pokemon."

You chuckle and make the turns out away from the alleyway and wait for street traffic to pass you by. It's frighteningly easy to talk to him; the flow of everything just feels so natural right now. Almost like you were talking to Riku, but you're not and they're not the same person and you know that this blond dancer would never be that for you.

"I know you want to ask."

"So you must have a lot of fans."

"What?"

"Your clothes. I'm guessing some hardcore customer got a little too interested." After all, what could possibly be the truth? Occam's razor. Work-related. It has to be.

"No."

"Then..."

He sighs, letting a long pause linger in the air. You can see in his reflection on the windshield that he's got his head propped up against the edge of the window. His arms are hugged close to his body, almost as if he's holding something together inside himself, like he's warring with himself. A devilish twitch of the lips tells you he's decided.

"Larxene took them."

* * *

"What? Larxene?" He nearly cries in disbelief. "No. She would never."

"No, of course she would never. Never get them herself, that is." I scoff into the shirt he's lent me. "She's basically planning for you to move in. Renovating my current room into an office for you. At least, that's what my contacts inside tell me."

"Did you seriously just say 'contacts inside'? That... what... what?"

I chuckle. It always surprises me how some people fall so easily for that pretty, petite, and perfect facade.

"Yeah, sounds like fiction doesn't it? Hate to break it to you, but my sister's a bit of a melodramatic control freak. Bitchy to max-pardonnez mes fraincais-which makes life with her an 'adventure'."

He grips the steering wheel with more intensity than anything I've ever seen express before. Had it been anyone else, teeth would be grinding and words would be coming out of his mouth in a much thinker tone. But it's a bare whisper, his cracking voice.

"Why are you telling me this?"

I told him about the conniving, bitchy side of his fiancé because he deserves a heads up. I wanted to tell him this, but everyone has a bullshit meter, and I think everything I've already said crossed from "Holy shit. Wow" to "What the fuck? You can't be serious. Nope. Don't believe you."

I'm silent long enough for him to unclench his jaw and whisper, "She wouldn't just kick you out. I don't believe it."

Eh. Close enough. Looks like the firecrotch won't pin this to me. How refreshing.

I smirk, tucking my face into the neck of his oversized T-shirt. Honestly, it kind of stinks, but in that pleasant, manly way my personal patrons never have. No pricey cologne or anything of the like, but a nice, classy kind of manliness.

"You could just ask her yourself," I mumble from under the fabric.

This sad, apologetic look crosses his face, but nothing more comes out from his between his lips. A man in conflict, I'd say if I didn't know any better. I think I just shattered his belief in the existence of good people.

"You know..."

"Hm?" I inhale through the hem of his shirt, and the intake is like fucking cocaine. "Oh turn right at the next stoplight."

"I'm... we're not, at least I don't think she thinks this, but we're not in..." He hesitates, pressing a hand to his forehead. We've rounded the corner now and my apartment complex is just around the corner. "Nevermind. You... Just forget it."

"Okay."

But it's not okay, because I could hear it. I could, I really could, just there under the sad straining of his vocal chords is a truth that I didn't need ears to hear. And as I watched his car speed off into the darkness, for the first time in my life being right about Larxene wasn't nearly as fulfilling as I thought it would always be.

With a sigh, I resign myself to changing. At least if I'm busy, I won't have to talk.

* * *

When did he became so visually enticing? You've always identified as straight, but suddenly it takes all the willpower in the world not to let your gaze shift form the road ahead to the dancer who's working his bondage shirt off. You nearly clip a curb when, out of the corner of you eye, you see those elegant hips tied in leather hotpants wriggle into your second favorite pair of grey loungepants.

"Shouldn't you take those off?" You ask, stupidly. Now he knows you were watching.

"I've got nothing on underneath." The blond grins salaciously. "Unless you want me bearback in these, or if you want a little private show..."

Panic. A what? A _what_?

"N-No, please, just... take the black shirt in the bag, okay? You can put your work clothes in the empty bag when you're done. Just don't, um, take my socks."

(You really, _really_ like those socks.)

The blond tosses the balled up socks to the back seat and then is quiet. He's so oddly quiet.

You pull to a stoplight and look over to see that he's completely still, staring at his hands. His lips are pulled tight and he swallows multiple times, as if breathing suddenly became a voluntary bodily function. Even through the flickering lamp-lit darkness, you know. You know that...

"Something's wrong."

That coy ceramic mask cracks; you can't help but notice the soft pink glow underneath.

"I don't know how to turn it off," he whispers. It's so fierce you think he might shatter. "I don't know how or when or fucking _why_, Axel. I just don't know how to stop acting like a cheap a-fuck-a-buck whore! I take my work everywhere and even now I'm being followed and I just—" He takes a deep breath. "You know what? I'd fuck you to bits if you weren't with my sister."

The light turns green and a cars begin honking up a cacophony behind you.

"But you're _too good a guy_. My sister doesn't deserve you. You're too good for her and..." he cracks a grin to the symphony of road rage passing you and flipping you off. "I could have you in a minute. I could seduce you and make you come so fucking hard your body would never recover the same again, but I won't. I can say all I want, but I can't act on it ruin you."

You smile at him, body shaking so hard that tapping the gas pedal could wreck your car. The halfhard arousal between your legs is thankfully hidden by the darkness.

He speaks the truth and that thrills you more than anything.

"Thank you," you manage brokenly.

"Yeah." He looks away.

Your mask is slipping too. The manacles keeping you from reaching out and grabbing hold are slowly loosening. It's time to start driving or you'll never get him home.

* * *

So yeah. This is an update of some kind. They still happen sometimes.

_Bisous,  
__Minikimii_


	6. Today is Every Day

**A/N: **Twice in a week? It's like I'm alive or something!

* * *

**Glass Castles  
**Today is Every Day

You know they've put something in my water when I return home for one day and two nights to collect the last of my things.

You know they've put something in my water when I look in and I'm perfectly okay with knowing that in twenty-four hours, the marks of me having ever grown up in this house will be completely gone.

And you know they've put something in my water when I wake up at 2:00am in the morning to a cold draft and a spacious room oddly lacking of furniture. I slid my hands along the edge of the bed only to find I wasn't even on a bed anymore.

I'm sleeping on a mattress by the door, and someone turned the ceiling lights up all the way. I leaned over a bit, still laying, and eased the door shut. It's when I looked down that I noticed the ever-so-slight push in the fabric of my barely-there blanket.

And then the dream slid back into me like a warm pumpkin spice latte or hot chocolate after snowfall.

I could feel those soft, long fingers on my hips again, just like that night in the club, those blunt nails quivering on my skin like butterflies' wings and bat's claws all at once. I could feel the same pixie dust lust in his breath this time, but closer, heavier, wanting to swallow me whole and engulf me with his air, as his air.

Like how I could feel him twitching beneath me, unlike the men who usually showed up to the classy establishment that is A_mbrosia_. They let themselves grab and give in. They saved up and paid for it so they felt entitled to me.

And he hadn't. That beautiful man with the thick outline in his dress pants who probably fucks like a champ was holding back.

Restraint.

It's sexy as fuck.

Oh god, I can feel myself twitching now too. It won't hurt anyone if I just...

If...

I...

J-just...

Fuck...

O-oh...

Fuck...

* * *

You wake up with a raging boner.

For the third time in the last two days, you wake up with a raging boner.

It's the only way to describe this because, quite simply, there is no kind way to label what's going on in the lower regions without it sounding like a chocolate ad.

There are days when this happens and there's no remorse when you simply grip and take care of business, but it almost hurts this morning, the fabric pushing against you.

_Roxy, tongue flicking over his lips, teeth just barely tugging on his lower lip, eyes burning, hot, so hot, so ready and that gaze just bores right into you, right there on that spot, so sweet those lips, and that high brow plucked and arched and perfectly tempting to mouth and bury and..._

Your back arches and suddenly it's over. It's over and you're covered with cum and guilt.

So you go and take a shower. A shower fixes everything, it always fixes everything. A shower to wash away the sin.

After climbing out of bed, ripping off your boxers and stumbling into the large marble shower in your equally large bathroom, you sit for a minute on the two foot marble ledge at the foot of the dual head spray. Listlessly, your hands wander toard the body wash and sponge in the far corner of your eight by eight by four foot shower. You can feel your body cooling down and falling into a meditative state. The suds are washing down the drain in little clumps. It's strangely cute, the simple way they slide through the water. Everything about them is so simple. So clean.

It's mornings like these that make you feel so, so guilty. In fact, is it even morning? A quick glance through the tall window above your shower proves otherwise. it's sometime before seven AM and that fact isn't exactly welcome.

You try to let the dirty feeling seep down the drain with the body wash and the shampoo, but no matter how hard you scrub, the feeling lingers.

It's festering now, even in that grand space of a shower, so you slide the water to lukewarm on the side of cool. That's better. The heat dies away slowly, but you can still feel how calmly the cool water slips through your hair and against your scalp, only to become warm again. The feeling still lingers. That nibble of oh-I-know-it's-wrong-but-I-can't-help-it afterguilt.

Defeated, you resign to sliding the glass doors open and reaching for your to-

You were so distracted that you forgot to take a towel with you into the bathroom.

Well, shit.

But that's the great thing about living alone: you're free to wear as little as you want for as long as you want.

Ether way, it's still dark out and the city lights are the only thing that guide your path back from the soft glow of the bathroom's floral light bulbs to the sheets that are due to begin functioning as towels. You can wrap yourself again in the sweat of an unwanted, intoxicating nightmare.

* * *

A morning stroll can be a great thing to wake up with. Especially shirtless at five in the morning, when the maids are at their busiest.

"Hey, Xi."

"Oh." She jumped back a little when she saw me wearing nothing but a pair of baggy sweat pants. "I'm not supposed to talk to you."

"Nothing stopped you before."

She sighs and keeps working. I pull out a cigarette and light up. Now I can give the security system an excuse.

"Thanks, by the way. For the help with Larx and my room plans."

She smiles and pretends to need to back away behind a hedge. Insignificant blind spot near an insignificant (read: my) wing of the house. Why install a camera for a section virtually unreachable? Why install a camera for the cast away kid you don't give two shits about?

"No problem. You're going to go get me trouble now, so go."

"I know," I pull a scoff and grin duo. The kind of sexy grin that would have most people swooning. "I just know that you don't give a fuck."

Her lips pull tight and I can feel the attitude radiating off her skin. "Yeah, but I'd like to keep being your eyes and ears, Rox, because it pays just as well as being a bartender. So do you want me to get fired?"

Of course, I didn't want that. Not after what she went through to get back what wasn't mine.

"Naw," I chuckled. "Just wanted to let you know, thanks for getting these sweats back from the maids. Love 'em, Xi. It's wonderful." I blew her a kiss, and she caught it with a small pucker and a wink.

"Okay, okay," she flapped her hands at me and pouted. "Now go away and let me do my job!"

"Bitch."

"Hey!"

* * *

Holding Larxene after sex doesn't feel right anymore. Maybe it never felt right in the first place.

The bedsheets are draped over her legs and butt and pulled just over the edge of her nipple. Her newly tanned skin looks like cafe au lait against the pretty white bed sheets, and her perfectly painted, softly pink nails make the skin of her hands look darker than normal. Her makeup is smudged around the edges of her eyes, a little having trailed off in the corners, following the sweat line down her cheek.

It's actually a bit distracting. No, more than a bit, because suddenly you can't focus on anything but that dribble of eyeliner and how it makes you think of a certain pair of equally bright and blue eyes in a sea of musky black eye shadow, beckoning and teasing, taunting...

You shake your fingers through your knotted, sweaty, drooping locks. Clear your mind. Run your fingertips over her hips as she snuggles against your chest. Plant a kiss on her forehead when she looks up.

Play the game.

You used to watch her breathe in and out, eyes focused on the elegant curve of her small breasts, the tendons in her neck straining as she moved closer to you. You used to watch her eyelids flutter as she orgasmed. You used to want to run your hands up and down her body, feel the soft skin, grip her hips and...

Now someone else is beginning to invade that spot in your head. The body is unisex now; the face is unrecognizable. The skin you imagine on your fingers is lighter. The wrists you can feel in your hands are thicker, stronger.

But what you feel, what you know—more than anything—is that this figure, person, role that's filling your head makes you passionate about something. For once in your life, you feel that burning excitement in your core evoked by another person, an intense desire to connect with more than just circuitry and numbers, a—

"Well, that was fun."

You manage to smile at Larxene who is suddenly up, away from the bed, getting dressed. She's already flouncing through your apartment like it's some dinky, pointless, soon-to-be-vacant cardboard box.

In her mind it already is.

"So much for a lunch date," you chuckle, humorless in truth.

She makes a high-pitched chortle sound as she's slipping into her pencil skirt.

"We both just ate, Axel, what are you complaining about?" It's supposed to sound like a joke, but all you feel are the passive-aggressive undertones.

You smirk with a little sniff and rise from the mattress to meet her. Your arms slide around her sides and you button her blouse for her as she stands in front of your full length mirror, kissing her neck as she stares at your reflections.

"Thanks, sweetie." She kisses you on the cheek and pulls away. "Oh, and I wanted to talk about our living situation."

"Yeah, I was going to ask—"

"Oh, that's great!" she exclaims before you can finish telling her anything. "I'll set up a date with the movers in three weeks, then! I know these guys who can give us a great deal and could really take care of your, what, four-hundred-million dollar furniture and that weird, ratty nightstand of yours." She grimaces at the worn thing sitting at your bedside. "You really need to just throw that out and replace it. It's cheap and tacky and... kind of smells." She grimaces again. "Anyway, you just get your cute ass packed up right and I'll see you on my doorstep then!" Her eyes flicker down to her watch and she jumps toward the elevator. "Oh! Gotta run. Great talk, Axel." She salutes you. "Have a great board meeting!"

"But I don't think it's a good idea to... move in... with... you."

But she's already gone, and you're left here, stroking that lovely old smelly thing that is your nightstand filled with the wonders of your first year away from the orphanage.

A self-portrait is carved into the side of the nightstand facing the wall of you and Riku, standing next to each other. The thing is awful, really, especially when you stop to think about how you and Riku pricked your fingers to paint the red of your hair and Riku's shirt with blood.

On the underside of the top drawer is a caricature of yourself drawn by one Naminé Frescha, the woman you met in your dorm who was known for her extreme allergies and her ability to paint while wearing a hazmat suit. It's brilliant, what she drew. You as a little fire faerie, light shaped like wings bursting and wrapping around everything.

One corner near the wall, away from the bed, is cracked an broken from the first time you... you saw blood. Fresh blood from a human being.

You shake your head, pressing your hands to your eye sockets. Stop thinking about this. You stand up and slide out the second drawer. After digging through the bottle of body butter, sun block, and behind the locked case of your private flash drives, you remove a rectangular blue box from the back of the drawer. It's cool in your hand, familiar, comforting.

Lonely.

A golden necklace of two interlocking circles sits in a plush bed of Tiffany blue. On the rim of one circle is an engraving of your name. The other...

"Oh, you," you whisper, fingering the gold chain. "My stupid, _stupid_ Demyx..."

* * *

It's days like these when I really don't need to wake up and walk out into the hall to find my sister's hot-as-fucking-hell Fiancé wandering the halls of the mansion. It's also one of those days when I'm really quite lucky to have had my shirt removed from my room in my sleep. Wish I could get a padlock installed.

I had a bag of things I'd hidden slung over my shoulder. Way to make an entrance, looking like a stripped hobo just done with a night of intense internal conflict. Augh. Who am I kidding? I mean, that's what I basically am now.

Fuck.

I need to shut up.

By the time I look up again, all I can see is the tail end of his tied, fiery porcupine head turning the corner.

I retreat to my furniture-less room and rummage through my single remaining bag of belongings that the maids neglected to throw out. Looks like they're not as emotionally numb as I thought.

A quick text to Sora takes care of the morning getaway plans. A quick second text kills this curious cat, because he's staying here to find out what the fuck the fiance is doing in the mansion today.

He could've at least said good morning. No one would try to kick him out. He's not Xion.

* * *

Guilt washes over you again. The shower this morning and the one from two nights ago didn't do anything to remove the utter grime of sin from beneath your fingernails. It's still in your hair, radiating off your body, pulsing through your cheeks and broadcasting itself to each and every maid that walked down the hallway.

The far wall is comprised of only a large glass window, impeccably polished and upsettingly, wonderfully reflective in the still dark of dawn. He looks like an emaciated ghost. Hardened. Haunting.

Hot, if anything.

But you'll never admit that to anyone. You can barely admit it to yourself as you watch him in the reflections, half wishing he would make eye contact and stop you, half wishing you could continue watching uninterrupted.

By the time you reach the end of the hallway, the sun has already begn losing the ground. The long shadows detach from your feet as you round the conner into L's wing, and you resolve to leave that sinner's guilt behind you with the long shadows in the hallway where everything about the dark is amplified and light travels like a terrible angel of vengeance filled with nothing but the mission to expose the wrong doings of man when his back is turned. But it's okay because soon you won't be a target anymore. Soon, she'll know how the two of you met beforehand and there will be no secrets. The temptation, the thrill of the secrecy and the guilt, oh the guilt, will be gone.

Soon.

* * *

I know when the shit's hit the fan, and that splatter is going to be one hell of a mess to clean up. Socially and politically speaking, of course. I can be pretty fuckin' disgusting sometimes. Gotta love metaphors.

I can almost smell that woman's distress from my position on the gate. Well, I guess it wouldnt be considered smelling the distress so much as seeing it, hearing it, feeling it, and trying to climb up the byproduct of it into Sora's car waiting on the other side.

Let me rephrase that: Larxene locked me in. She won't open the gates for Sora to get in, so I'm basically fence hopping my way out of here. "Here" being that strategic place two thirds up the twenty foot main gate where her godawful banshee shrieks are trying to tear me down. I'm going to try to pretend that I didn't just turn around and see her in her bathrobe, olympic sprinting cross the frost with her face covered in a green cucumber, ginger, and avocado face mask. I can practically smell the salad from here. Damn she's close.

"Roxy, c'mon! Haul ass!"

I do a quick vault over the top of the gate, slide down the other side, and slip into Sora's car.

"Let's get the fuck outta here."

I can hear the gates opening behind us and Larxene's loud, winded breath approaching as Sora starts his car and makes our getaway. I glance back once only to find that that red hot piece of ass has his arms wrapped around my sister's body, half comforting her, half disbelieving the scene he just witnessed.

Next to me, Sora laughs. "Sometimes your life feels like a movie, Rox."

"Yeah," I murmur surprisingly stoically. "Tends to happen when your sister insists on acting that way."

He gives me a quick sympathetic smile, and I reciprocate. I'm glad Sora's here for me; he confirms my existence when he sympathizes with me. But there's nothing left to feel sorry for, really. I'm used to it.

* * *

I... Yeah. I mean, I updated twice in one week. Unheard of from me anymore, I know. Anyway, I plan to be working exclusively on Call Me all of December, so look out! I mean, after finals of course. XD

_Happy Holidays!_  
_Minikimii_


End file.
